


The Lightning Tree

by Grace_d



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical alcohol abuse, Canonical Child Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, time travel or is it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-11-12 01:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_d/pseuds/Grace_d
Summary: At night, I wake screaming of mutts and hot, bloody rain. After Prim reassures me it’s not real and drops back to sleep, I trace my fingers over the paper dandelion on my wall. I remind myself of the things I know are true, improbable as they seem. That I’m not concussed or crazy. That my life is about to catch fire, as sure as the arena did after I shot that arrow, but maybe this time I won’t get burnt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fan work, the original works and characters belong to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.

_Rising from my hiding place in the jungle, I grasp the end of the wire. I wrap it around the arrows shaft, knotting it tightly. Behind me, I hear grunts and heavy breathing of the other tributes. Somewhere out in the forest, not so far away now, is Peeta too. I don’t know why Beetee wanted this, but in this moment I’ll choose to trust him. Maybe it’s part of some bigger plan. Maybe this will save Peeta when I can’t. I scan the edge of the forest, looking for the haze, the mistake, the flaw in the system that exposes the Game makers and the Capitol. There! I narrow my eyes at the fuzzy square. Breath deeply, steady my hands on the inhale, release the arrow on the exhale._

_The wire spins past me in the darkness, shining into the sky like it could connect the stars. Then comes the familiar rumble of thunder. The hairs on my arms stand on end and then the whip crack of lightning. I’m blown backwards as blinding light bounces between the tree and the sky, connected by Beetee’s unbreakable wire._

_Numbness spreads through my body and I can’t move, can’t scream, can’t cry. This is it, I’m paralysed, my usefulness expended. Nothing to do but lie here and pray I’ve done enough for Peeta’s safety._

_The edge of the arena groans, creaks and begins to fall. Sparks fly and flames lick up towards the freedom of the outside. Just as the explosions start, I find a star in the sky, hanging up there like a pearl in a dark blue ocean._

* * *

When I open my eyes again, instead of chaos I see a valley stretched out below me, just like I’m back in District 12. I blink slowly, my ears ringing and a smell like charred leather all around me. So this is what it is like to die after so many close calls. The sky above me is dark, swirling with clouds and I feel the mist of rain on my face, droplets in my hair. I’m on the rock in the valley where Gale and I used to sit. I smell rain on the grass and I close my eyes. I love the smell of rain in the forest.

I hear my name being called from far away, and then a boom. Blearily I turn my head towards it.

“Peeta?” Suddenly I remember everything. The arena, the wire trap, my blood, the lightning.

“Peeta!” I screech, hauling myself upright. My head swims and I vomit. The grass around me is scorched.

Gale bursts through the trees on my left. “Shit”, he drops to his knees beside me. He grabs my face hard, squashing it between his hands. How did he get here? He’s talking at me fast, asking me questions. I pull my face away. My head is pounding. The edges of my vision blurs.

“Peeta?” I call into the woods behind us.

A clap of thunder reverberates through my chest and I pitch to the side and vomit again. My vision blurs completely and I am overcome by darkness.

A jostling feeling pulls me up again. Arms are looped under my legs, and behind my back. I can hear heavy breathing. Gale swears as my head bounces against his chest. My whole body aches.

“Gale” I mumble into his chest, “where is Peeta?” Then I drift back to into unconsciousness.

* * *

“What happened?" My mother’s voice sounds far away. 

I feel small hands stroking my face and hair and I lean into them. Prim begins murmuring to me, telling me it’s okay. My head hurts so badly. Behind her, I hear Gale’s low tone. He’s talking about checking snares and lightning strikes. Oh! The lightning!

“Prim” my voice cracks and the hands stop. “Prim, where is Peeta?”

I’m becoming agitated again. My eyes flutter open and I’m staring at the ceiling. I recognise the water stain above me. I’m staring at the ceiling of our own house in the Seam. I’m lying in my bed at our old house in the Seam. I find my sister’s blue eyes, her neat braid. She looks so fresh and so young.

Her brow crinkles “Who’s Peeta?”

I gape at her.

Gale steps into the room. “She means the baker’s son. She’s been saying his name since I found her.” The corner of his mouth twists.

“The youngest Mellark boy?” I turn my head and see my mother sitting at my waist. “Was he out there with you?"

Gale shakes his head.

“No!” I insist, trying to sit up. My whole body screams at me. Neck, shoulders, waist. Why are they acting like this? “No, he was right there! I lost him. In the arena! Is he safe?”

My mother looks at Gale.

“We were talking about trying to get some squirrels to trade at the bakery later, maybe?” His voice goes hard. “I didn’t even know they talked.”

I shake my head violently, and the room tilts again. Where are we? Where is Peeta?! I have to find him. Make sure he’s safe. I open my mouth to tell them this, but instead I fall back into darkness.

* * *

When I wake next it’s night, and there’s a candle burning on the table next to my bed. Prim is curled up on the bed next to me, just like she used to before I was reaped the first time. It still looks like our bedroom in the Seam. I’m in my father’s flannel shirt and I can hear my mother pottering about the kitchen, running water and placing a pot on the stove. In the corners of the room a thin coat of coal dust collecting. Is this some kind of Capitol trick? I think back. Everything after Johanna hitting me in the head is vague, crooked. Beetee’s body faintly smoking. I remember thinking of Haymitch, remember who the real enemy is. And Peeta desperately screaming my name from the jungle. I grab Prim’s shoulder and shake her awake.

“Prim,” I whisper to her when she blinks at me, “Where are we now? Do you know where Peeta is?”

“We’re at home” she whispers back. “Peeta’s probably at home too.”

“In the Village?”

“No,” she sounds surprised “we’re in the Seam. And Peeta lives over the bakery.”

I frown at her.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I was in the arena, Johanna hit me in the head, cut my arm...” I say to the watermark on the ceiling. I look at my arm. No marks, although I can still feel the numbness of my fingers after Johanna carved it up. It’s smooth, there’s no bump where the tracker should sit.

“Katniss,” she shakes her head, and starts slowly, “You went out into the woods today to hunt. You went with Gale. You were in a tree when a storm blew in. Gale says you got hit by lightning.” Her chin starts wobbling.

I shush her and pull her to my chest, thoughts slipping in and out of my head. I can’t seem to firmly grasp any of them. This is my sister, I am sure of it. Her skin, her hair, her smell, I know her and she’s real and here. The same as, this is my house in the Seam, I think, or a perfect recreation. What is going on. Why has Snow let me come home? How did I get here from the arena?

“Prim, I really need to see Peeta.”

“I’ll go get him. First thing tomorrow morning.” She promises.

Then my mother comes in holding a sweet-smelling tea. She forces me to drink it and checks my eyes, asking me questions about my name and age, where we are, what season is it, who is the Mayor. She’s checking my mental state I realise. I can’t answer half of those questions. She tells me I’m disorientated, that I have a concussion. She soothes my hair back, and I whisper after her, _My name is Katniss Everdeen, I am sixteen years old, I am from District 12. The Mayor is Mr Undersee, it’s early spring_. But I know this is not all true. Silently I repeat her mantra, adding words of my own. _My name is Katniss Everdeen, I am seventeen years old, it should be high summer, Snow wants to destroy us, I was in the arena, I was reaped with Peeta in the Quarter Quell, Peeta is missing, I need to find Peeta_. Repeating those phrases and clutching at my sister, with sleep syrup taste in my mouth, I fall into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The sunlight streaming through the curtains burns through my eyelids, and I roll away from it. I feel bile rising in my throat and I swallow a few times. I crack one eye open. The other side of the bed is cool, and I am alone in the room. It still seems like I’m in Twelve, in my Seam room. Today though, I’m determined to make it to the hallway, to see what’s outside.

Hesitantly, I pull myself upright, and barely am able to grab the bucket my mother left by the bed before I vomit up the tea I drank last night. I don’t remember when I last ate. There’s a pile of mint leaves on the bedside table, and I put some in my mouth before the smell of my own vomit makes me gag more. I lean across and push back the curtains, the window opening easily enough. Outside it is the narrow laneway behind our house. From down the road I hear a squalling baby, just like the spring last year, when the house on the corner had a newborn. I frown. This is all exactly…right. Every detail, just like home. I’m still in my father’s flannel shirt, it hits just above my knees, frayed around the sleeve cuff and missing a third button.

I hear scraping at the front door and I’m out in the hallway before my head can catch up. The door opens and it’s Prim, kicking her muddy shoes off, and behind her Peeta, leaning down to untie his laces. I cry out and launch myself at him, arms curling around his neck. He freezes as I slam into him. I knock us both into the door but I’m latched onto him tightly as he staggers back and we slide to the floor. After a second, I feel his arms wrap around my back and he begins making gentle shushing noise. The last time I heard his voice he was deep in the jungle, howling my name. I realise I’m sobbing into his chest.

“Katniss!” Prim’s prying my arms away from Peeta’s neck and apologising. “She’s a bit confused,” she says hopelessly as I shrug her away. “She, sorry, like I said, being emotional is a common side effect. I think she thinks you were in the woods with them when it happened.”

“It’s okay” I hear Peeta say after a pause, “Is it alright for her to be out of bed already?”

Prim’s response is lost when I find I can feel Peeta’s heartbeat against my cheek, and I force down my sobs, chasing the soft pulse of his heartbeat. I breath in his cinnamon and dill scent deeply. It’s really him. His hands on my back freeze and he clears his throat.

“Uh, Katniss,” he starts, and I thread my fingers into the scruffy hair that curls at the back of his neck. He makes a choking noise. “Katniss, I’m really glad to see you too, but let’s get you off the floor okay?”

Startled at his priorities, I lean back and scowl. Last time we were clinging together like this we were covered in sand and sweat in front of all of Panem. “What’s going on?” I demand. “How did we get out of the arena?”

His eyebrows disappear beneath his curls. “As in the Games?” He shakes his head with a gentle smile. “Concussion or no, this is a memorable first conversation Katniss.”

“You’ve never spoken before?” Prim’s voice is so high, it pierces my head. “I thought maybe you were, oh, I’m so sorry, if I’d known I wouldn’t have asked you to come. Or at least, I would’ve made sure she was dressed. She’s just been so upset about, and asking for you all the time. It’s my first reaping coming up, I think she’s scared, and her and Gale were talking about the bakery when it happened...”

I twist around and glare at Prim to stop her babbling, and scoot away from Peeta, resting my chin on my knees. Peeta mumbles reassurances to me, rubbing his hand on my back. I look him straight in the eyes and see only sympathy, only the deep blue eyes I trust. He looks softer somehow. Just like Prim does.

“Peeta,” I say slowly, like my mouth is testing out the words. “Which Hunger Games are coming up?”

He flinches a little, but looks straight back at me steadily. “I think this year is the 74th games.” I see in his face that he believes this.

I rub my fingers against my temples and the nausea starts to rise again. I try to put together what I remember, to what everyone else is telling me. Peeta and Prim, I trust them. I think I am in Twelve. But I remember being reaped, twice, I remember two Hunger Games, two arenas, and so, so many deaths. What is Snow's game here? My thoughts are slippery, and they skitter away from me.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing my shoulder. Prim’s hovering on my other side. I realise I’m rocking back and forth. “Let’s get you back into bed and we can talk it through. I’ll just get my boots off.”

“Let me help you with those stupid knots.” I mumble, leaning forwards for his left shoelace, tightly laced as always. He’s wearing shorts today, and down his left shin is a nasty graze. Down his left shin… I stare at his left leg. I put my hands on his calf. It’s warm, I can feel his blonde leg hairs under my palms. I feel like my grip on reality is slipping and my vision starts to tunnel.

“What happened to your leg!” I feel his hands on my face, and the blackness closes around the edge of my vision until all I can see is the blue of his eyes. Like finding stars in the night sky. And then the familiar blackness again.

* * *

Three days pass before mother lets me off bed rest after my “episode” with Peeta’s visit. She says she’s concerned about my recurrent fainting, that I am still too easily over excited and disorientated. I think Prim must have told her I practically mauled a boy who didn’t know me. Insisting that we are engaged to be married only disturbs my mother more, and she decides to keep me out of school for the rest of the week. Mom and Prim seem to have no recollection of Peeta, of the mornings he spent in our kitchen at Victors Village, the cookies he baked for us or the days he helped me work on the book. The fact I wake them nightly screaming about mutts and clocks and spears doesn’t help. But the nightmares also convince me that the arena was also true. I don’t think I have the imagination to dream up two arenas and the events around them. I think of the visits from President Snow, shiver as I remember his threats, images of rebellion I saw from the districts. No, there is no way I could have invented all of that. Something else must be going on.

Mother bars me from having visitors until I’ve settled. Gale stops in a few times to drop off game, but he’s not allowed in the bedroom. But when Madge visits and is turned away I wonder where she heard about my condition from. Every moment Prim isn’t at school I insist she is in the room with me. I spend this time studying her, and I work out why she seems different to me. She’s younger. She acts younger, speaks younger. Gone is the early maturity developing before I left for the Quell.

I think Prim must feel bad about telling Mother about Peeta’s visit, because when my mother isn’t paying attention, she pins a drawing Peeta left for me to the wall beside my bed. It’s a dandelion peeking out from a patch of snow, sketched in rough, but perfect, pencil strokes. I can see the bright yellow against the white as clearly as if he had captured it with his paints. I wonder if it was in his pocket when he came to visit, or if he sketched it this past week while I slept. It convinces me more than anything I can see or hear around me that somehow, however unbelievable, this is my home in District Twelve, this is somehow real.

At night, when I wake after a nightmare, I trace the thin petals with my fingers and remind myself of the things I know are true, improbable as they seem. That I somehow seem to be back in District Twelve fourteen or so months before I shot the arrow into the forcefield. And when I do that, I remember Beetee’s plan, the intricate laying of wire around the lightning tree. He has the answers I need. I need to speak with him. And luckily, I know a Victor who can put me in touch.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch narrows his eyes. “You seem awfully familiar with Victors for a Seam kid.”
> 
> “Yeah well, it’s not a club I’m glad to be part of.” I snarl.
> 
> “Sweetheart you ain’t no Victor.” He shoots back. “Although,” his voice turns pensive, “you would make a heck of a tribute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fan work, the original works and characters belong to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.

I’m on my best behaviour after deciding to find Haymitch, and on Saturday when Gale stops by after hunting I insist on going trading with him. He promises my mother he’ll look after me. Gale carries his game, and I hold the early season berries he’s gathered. I have the feeling he wouldn’t let me carry anything more anyway. I’m still feeling disconnected, like my feet are dragging in the coal dust. I'm anxious to see if anything in town has changed and to speak with Haymitch. I snap at Gale a few times while we walk. He just laughs at me, flicking my ear and says that I must be feeling better if my temper is back.

We head to the Hob first, I tell Gale I want some of Greasy Sae’s stew for lunch. Mostly I want to check it’s still intact. I needn’t have worried, the lopsided warehouse is exactly as it was before Thread. Sae greets me warmly, commenting that she missed my trade. Steam curls gently from the edges of her soup tureen and it smells delicious.

“Everybody watch out, it’s our little lightening rod!” Someone calls from the tables beside the stall and I see the red hair first. It’s Darius, and I can’t stop the grin spreading across my face. He grabs his heart and slumps back on his stool. 

“A smile from Katniss Everdeen! Now I know what it feels like to be struck by lightning.” He says. 

Delighted, I leave Gale to grab our bowls and sit next to Darius. 

“So now that you’ve had a near death experience, do you have any regrets?” He says.

I shake my head at him, nearly stuck dumb by hearing his voice. 

“No?” he quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t regret missing your chance to kiss Panem’s most eligible bachelor?”

“Well you’re no Finnick Odair.” I say.

“I’ll have you know..” He says, taking my hand, and I’m so overwhelmed by the memory of the panic filled moments when I last saw him that I lean over and plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Darius looks shocked. Beside me, Gale drops his spoon. I’m suddenly aware of our audience. 

“Any sparks?” Darius, recovered, wiggles his eyebrows at me. 

I wrinkle my nose. “I should have checked those references first.”

The tables around us erupt into laughter and Darius joins in, shaking his head. Gale doesn’t say anything. I eat my stew slowly, watching Ripper’s stall out of the corner my eye. Hopefully Haymitch is in need of white liquor today. I’m prepared to hang around and wait when Gale scoops up our bowls and announces it’s time to go.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m happy to sit here.” 

“Katniss,” he says firmly, “We’ve got trades to finish.”

Annoyed, I wave goodbye to Darius and the others as Gale stalks out between the vendor stalls, throwing me dark glances over his shoulder to make sure I’m following. I finally catch up to him at the corner of the square. The effort of rushing behind him is causing a dull ache behind my eyes. 

“Are your brains still scrambled?” His shoulders are pulled high around his ears.

What is he even talking about?

“First you’re obsessed with some Town kid, then you kiss a Peacekeeper!” He erupts. “Have you even kissed anyone before?” 

“Yes.” I snarl back. Then I put my hands to my lips. Maybe I haven’t yet though.

“Who?” He says.

“Who have you kissed Gale?” I shoot back. “Will you write me a list?”

“That’s different.” He draws his mouth in a hard line. “You know what people will be saying about you, kissing Merchants and Peacekeepers.” 

“The only person I hear saying anything about me is you!” I shout. I spin on my heel and stomp off. “I’ll take the berries to Madge’s. Don’t want you interacting with any more Townie folk.” I say over my shoulder.

* * *

I skirt around the edges of the square. Trading with Madge was nice, I even have leftovers, but my head is pounding now. When I hear my name I startle, but it’s Peeta, stepping out of the bakery. He hurries towards me, rolling his apron up in his hands. I can see a thin layer of flour clinging to the blonde hairs on his arm. I categorise the details of him. Like Prim, he’s definitely younger, softer around the face, maybe shorter, but still stocky and strong. 

“It’s nice to see you up and about. Your mum said you were feeling better today.” He says. “I'm sorry if coming to your house was inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate like jumping on someone you've never really met before?” I raise an eyebrow at him even though I feel my face burn. He laughs, sounding startled and delighted. 

“Let’s fix that,” He extends his hand. “Hi. I'm Peeta Mellark. We go to school together. Wrestler and baker's son.” His smile is like sugar syrup being injected into my veins. I’m dizzy on it. 

I shake his hand. “You forgot to say Artist. Hi. Katniss Everdeen. Hunter.” 

“And singer.” He says. 

“I haven't really sung since my father died.” I say. 

“Oh,” He removes his hand from mine to rub the back of his neck. “I'm so sorry. That must be hard.”

“It is.” I can't think of anything else to add. But it doesn't matter, we're interrupted by one of Peeta's brothers yelling for him.

“Nice to officially meet you Katniss. Feel free to jump on me whenever you like now.” He winces at his comment, blushing to the top of his ears.

I remember the leftover berries in my bag. Impulsively, I grab his wrist and roll a handful of blueberries into his hand. 

“Have you ever had blueberries before?” I ask. 

“Once.” He says, as the juices soak into the flour coated lines in his palm, turning them dark purple. And suddenly I’m thinking of berries in Peeta’s hands in a very different circumstance. Of blood crusting under his bruised nail beds and blending with deadly red berry juice. My grip on his wrist becomes hard, too hard. 

“It can be hard to tell which berries are poisonous.” I say urgently. “You can tell these berries are safe because their insides are a light green colour. See?” I split a berry. “If it was red inside it would be Nightlock. One bite and you’re dead.” I'm not sure he's listening. He's just staring at our overlapping hands. “Don't ever eat wild berries without checking them first. Okay Peeta?” I think my fingernails are digging into his wrist. Surely I am hurting him now. 

“Got it,” he says. “No Nightlock.” 

“Oh no,” I reply, “Nightlock has other uses. If you see it, collect it, just don’t eat it.” I release his wrist, leaving berry stained fingerprints on his forearm. 

He looks into my face now, a question in his eyes. I step back. He must think I'm crazy. I feel a bit crazy as I rush away, rubbing flour and berry juice off my hands as I go. 

* * *

By the time I get home, Mother has lapsed into a listless haze, as though the effort of looking after me for a few days has drained all her energy. The difference between her careful attention yesterday is jarring and I feel a familiar rage building up inside me. I reign it in while I fix dinner, because her mental absence suits my purposes just fine anyway. I didn’t see Haymitch around town today, so I’ll have to go to him. 

That night I easily slip out of the bedroom window and into the laneway behind the house. The Seam is mostly quiet, candlelight flickering from most front windows. We haven’t had power for four days, making sticking to the shadows easier. There’s no reason to expect Peacekeepers to be patrolling, but I don’t want to test my luck. I skirt the edges of buildings, then the sparse tree line up to the Victor’s Village.

The row of houses look surreal in the moonlight. Dark shadows pool under the white trimmings of the porches and I’m reminded of gaping mine shafts. I half run through the backyards, hopping over fences. I’m unused to the lightness of my body now, still springy and tough but nowhere near as powerful as I feel I should be. I almost clip my foot on the final fence. I make a mental note to increase my protein intake, put on some muscle again. 

Haymitch’s house stands as dark and empty looking as the rest of them. The living room window is open, and I haul myself up into it. He’s never answered the door when I knock anyway. I pause the second my feet hit the floor. I haven’t even thought how to explain this to Haymitch. He’s passed out on the couch. Strewn around him are empty liquor bottles, and there’s a wet patch on the floor under my boot. The smell is overwhelming. All thoughts of what to say are gone as I dry retch out the window. 

In the next second, I’m yanked inside by my hair. I feel the sharp pressure of knife tip again my neck and shudder as the bitter smell of unwashed human surrounds me. 

“It’s a bit late for a visit.” Haymitch spits into my ear. His hands tighten in my hair, forcing my head back at a painful angle. “Come to gawk at the drunken mentor? Or here to steal from me?” He shifts his grip on the knife, and the pressure lessens for a moment. 

Instantly I grab the thumb of his knife hand, wrenching it back while stomping on his foot. With a cry he releases me and I bound forward, swinging around to face him. He stabs wildly at me, but I pivot aside, stepping in closer as I deflect his knife hand away. We’ve practiced this move a hundred times before. His own momentum carries him past me, and I punch him in the side of the head and kick the back of his knee. In a second I have him pinned to the ground, arm wrenched behind his back. I twist until he releases the knife with a grunt. I tuck it into my belt. 

“It’s just me you drunk idiot.” I pant, reaching down to remove the knife from his boot for good measure. Haymitch convulses under me and I spring up. He’s vomited on the floor, the sticky liquid spreading underneath us. 

He sits up and wipes his chin, squinting at me. 

“And who is me, sweetheart?” He sneers. 

“Stop messing around” I snap, sitting on my hunches as close to him as I can stand. “I know you had some plan with the others in the alliance. Well it worked now and I’m here, so tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re the one who broke into my house.” He shrugs. 

“Fine,” I huff. “You don’t want to tell me what’s going on? Don’t. Put me onto Beetee and I’ll ask him about it.”

“What do you want with Beetee?” He asks. 

“He did something, in the arena, I think.” I snap at him. “He and Wiress, they were intent on this wire thing. I set it on fire, from the lightning..” I trail off.

I realise I have no idea what I did, or was supposed to when I let that arrow fly. This is why I need to speak with Beetee, find out what his trap was meant to do. 

“Oh well, if Wiress was there too.” Haymitch says. I think he’s mocking me. I realise he thinks I’m crazy. 

“Yes, Nuts and Volts, Johanna’s name, not mine,” I say. 

Haymitch narrows his eyes. “You seem awfully familiar with Victors for a Seam kid.” 

“Yeah well, it’s not a club I’m glad to be part of.” I snarl. 

“Sweetheart you ain’t no Victor.” He shoots back. “Although,” his voice turns pensive, “you would make a heck of a tribute.”

“NO!” I scream. I throw my hands out and smack them into his chest. “I’m never going back there!” I spin around and dive out the window. I throw my hands over my head as a bottle whizzes past my head and smashes on the lawn. I’m across three lawns before he can hurl a second bottle. When I glance back I see Haymitch’s silhouette in the window, watching me run.

By the time I’m at the Village gate I’m winded. I slow down and duck into the tree line, pressing my hands into my stomach. As I come down from the adrenaline and my whole body starts to ache I ask myself how I expected that to go. Did I expect Haymitch to remember me? Even if he did, did I expect to just call Beetee up on the phone and say, what exactly? That in a year or so we would meet, he would build a trap that sends me back in time. This is crazy to think about. It’s not real. Beetee’s brilliant, but what I’m imagining seems impossible. And if it was, what would be the point of sending me back? My whole body is racked with tremors as I walk back to the Seam. 

Maybe though, they meant for someone else to come back. Beetee had tried to drive his spear into the forcefield. Then I remember something else. How insistent Beetee was that Peeta stay at the lightning tree with him. Where he would have been there if Brutus and Enobaria hadn’t cut the wire. In the arena, before Peeta and I were separated, when I became convinced that my allies were trying to keep Peeta alive. I grip my chest. Did I ruin Peeta’s survival chances when I shot the arrow through the force field? 

My mother doesn’t look up from the fireplace as I slip in the door and into bed. I trace my fingers over the dandelion and pull Prim closer to me. I feel sick and sore, not to mention overwhelmed. I can see my heartbeat in my eyes. And then I realise what I screamed at Haymitch. That I won’t go back to the arena. But that’s all in the future now, it’s all upcoming. Maybe instead of not going back, I’ll just never go in.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments and encouragement. 
> 
> I'm not as happy with this chapter, but thought I'd just upload as opposed to editing to death. Unbeta'd except for spell checking by my boyfriend, who said he liked it then asked, "what's the deal with the berries?". He is no help when refining plotting.
> 
> I'm new on tumbr as well at @reachingforaspark, thanks to those who shared my fic on there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fan work, the original works and characters belong to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.

The next morning I drag myself into the woods, despite feeling every inch like someone who was struck by lightning. I need to make amends with Gale and start planning to get away from the district. I’ll need a strong and experienced ally in the woods to keep us all alive. 

I wiggle under the fence, the dew coated ground soaking into my jacket. It’s still dark, an hour or two off dawn. I find Gale hunched over in the wet leaves, checking the snare lines. We share a terse hello and thankfully, settle back into our usual pattern. We bag three squirrels and a rabbit in silence. If he doesn’t want to talk about our fight then I don’t either. As I reach down to reset a line, I see a soft indentation in sticks to my right. I’d almost missed it in the dark. 

“Gale!” I whisper, pointing to the tracks. “Deer!” 

Silently he joins me, placing his hands next to the tracks to estimate its size. He shakes his head. “No good Katniss, this is a fawn. A tiny one at that. We can’t take it down, there’s not enough of the population.” 

“No, there’s three more.” I say excitedly. I remember this, at various times this summer we will see them but never gain a successful kill before I was reaped. “Two bucks! I’ve seen them. They’ll be at the bottom of the valley, near where mountain laurel grows.” 

His eyes widen. A buck would be an incredible haul for this morning. Decided, we circle around the mountainside, approaching the grove from upwind. Moving through the woods like this is thrilling. The pre-dawn light is growing steadily, and as the heat rises fog settles into the valley. We slide through it at a steady jog, our silent footsteps in near unison. I can hear Gale’s breathing, and it’s like he’s become an extension of myself. 

A few hundred yards out from the patch of woods where we expect to find them, we stop momentarily. We need to hurry to bag the deer, or we won’t be able to get it under the fence without being seen. I motion that I want to take the younger buck, it will be smaller and easier to carry, and Gale agrees. I’ll aim for the head, Gale the neck, as usual. 

As we creep into the clearing, bows raised, we can just make out the form of the sleeping deer, their ears twitching. The deer startle to attention as we approach the tree line, but instead of running just start a sedated jog across the clearing. We spread out slightly, keeping out each other’s line of fire as the deer pause again, shifting on their feet as their heads snap towards us. I sight the younger buck’s eye flashing and fire instinctively. My arrow finds its target and the deer drops a split second before Gale’s arrow sails over its head. The rest of the group bolts. 

Behind me Gale lets out a wild cheer and scoops me up in a hug. I laugh as he swings me in a circle then sets me back on my feet. We hack down a thick branch and tie the deer to it. We haul it to the nearest river before field dressing it there, burying the guts and quickly wiping off our hands and faces. I see a thick sprig of mountain laurel, the pink and white blooms making me think of sugar flowers on toasting cakes. I clip it off the tree and tuck it into my braid. Gale shakes his head at me. 

“Do you think you can jog with this?” Gale asks when we hoist the deer on our shoulders again. 

I know I’ll be sore later but we are running into daybreak now, and neither of us want to wait until nightfall to cash in our kill. The adrenaline carries me to the fence. It’s awkward, with our height difference, but we manage. Our walk into town feels much longer than our jog through the woods as paranoia starts to creep in. We’re testing our luck bringing in a deer so exposed like this. We make it to Rooba’s no problems, and she gives us an exceptional price, especially as the entire pelt is intact and she’ll be able to sell it to the shoemaker. The extra coin is perfect. It will give me a chance to start buying the supplies we’ll need to survive out in the forest. 

Gale and I are riding high on our success, planning what we’ll do with our coins as we head to the bakery to trade for rabbits. I’m still smiling widely as Mr Mellark steps out of the door and he and Gale begin to barter. I poke my head around the doorframe and catch sight of Peeta at the back bench. 

“Peeta!” I call out to him happily, stepping inside the frame. His head snaps up in shock. 

Behind me, Mr Mellark and Gale pause. 

“Oh sorry,” I step back out onto the back stoop. “Can I go in?” I ask Mr Mellark politely. 

Mr Mellark waves me in with a slight smile and a reminder to wipe my boots, and I step back inside, out of the path of Gale’s prickly stare. There’s not much I can do about Gale’s bad mood right now, but I need Peeta to be willing to run away with me. We need to be friends. It’s warm in the bakery and I inhale deeply, soaking up the smell. 

“Hey.” I say to Peeta, mindful to not go near the neat rows of sugar cookies Peeta has lined up on the bench. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, taking a hesitant step towards me. “You have some blood…” he gestures to the side of his neck. 

“Oh,” I flush, covering my neck with my hands. “I’m fine.” 

I lean in closer and drop my voice. “We got a stag this morning. Right through the eye.” I tap under my right eye, smiling at him. 

“Oh wow.” Peeta says. He looks at me with awe, which always makes me uncomfortable. I fiddle with my braid and look for something else to say. 

“Oh, and this is for you.” I pull the Mountain Laurel out of my braid. “I figured you could sketch it or, um, something else.” I finish lamely. I set it on the window sill beside me. “Don’t eat it, it’s toxic.” 

The corner of his mouth twitches up. “What is it with you and poisonous things?” 

“I’m just trying to give you some advice.” I say, suddenly unsure. Maybe it was a dumb move bringing him flowers. 

“It’s okay Katniss, I’m not going to eat the flowers.” He’s grinning now. He’s mocking me. 

“You have an unhealthy fascination with beautiful and deadly things. Who knows what you’ll do?” I say haughtily, turning on my heel and striding past Mr Mellark and out the door. 

I’m so embarrassed that I walk off without waiting for Gale. By the time I get to the corner of the alleyway I realise I may have over reacted and Peeta was probably teasing. My temper has cooled but it turns out Gale’s has not. 

He steps up behind my shoulder. “You know he only wants one thing from you.” He says in a flat voice. 

“You don’t know anything about him Gale.” I reply. 

“I know enough. Do you think he wants to grow up and marry you? Be realistic Katniss, he’s a merchant kid. He’ll just use you and toss you aside.” Gale says. 

“First of all, I owe Peeta my life, and he’s never asked for a single thing in return. Secondly, you think being a merchant protects you from suffering in this district?” I stride out into the square. I’m doing an awful lot of running away from people since I woke up. I nearly run straight into Madge, looking flustered. Her eyes are bloodshot and she’s clutching an apothecary bag in one hand. 

“Oh!” She raises her eyebrows at the both of us, shoulders heaving and blood under our fingernails. “Hello Katniss. Gale.” 

“Are we going to meet all your Townie friends today Katniss?” Gale sneers from behind my shoulder. 

“Gale Hawthorne, you arrogant jackass, don’t you dare speak to her like that.” Madge yells at him. I startled. I’ve never seen her like this before. 

“I’m sorry Miss Undersee.” Gale bows mockingly. “Didn’t mean to sully your presence with my coal dust.” Madge puts her hands on her hips and stands toe to toe with him. 

“Listen here,” she nearly yells into his face. “Usually I find your ignorance amusing, but today I’m not interested in any of your crap. I’m tired, I haven’t slept since Thursday, so let’s have it out so I can get back to my mother.” 

“Well I’m sorry to hear of your suffering, Mayor’s daughter.” Gale sounds sarcastic. “It’s not like you have a family to feed or a life condemned to the coal mines.” 

“So what,” she replies hotly, “You think it’s peaches and cream for me? My mother is on suicide watch right now so she doesn’t overdose on her migraine medication.” 

“At least she has fancy Capitol medication for her illness, thanks to your father’s privilege!” 

“Privilege?” Madge says. She lowers her voice and yanks Gale’s head down by his jacket collar. “They’ve known how to cure migraines for decades in the Capitol. No, my mothers’ medication is the leash they use to keep my father compliant. That, and my name in the Reaping bowl!” 

“Please,” Gale scoffs, “You’ll never be reaped.” 

“You really think the Capitol is above fixing a reaping?” Madge hisses at Gale. “They’ve reaped from my family before, they can do it again with a snap of their fingers.” 

Gale pauses. The wind is taken out of his sails now. He’s considering what she’s says but I’m sure it makes sense to him. Hasn’t he speculated about a thousand different ways the Capitol keeps us in line. 

“It doesn’t mean you know anything about what we go through in the Seam.” He says shortly. It’s now I realise how close their faces are to each other. Madge has her fist still closed around Gale’s jacket, and he’s leaning over into her. It’s intimate. I look away, studying the cobbles near my feet. I suppose it’s better than two teenagers yelling treason on the streets. 

“What do I have to do to earn your respect, steal Peacekeeper reports for you?” Madge says. 

“Could you do that?” Gale says speculatively. My head whips back around. Their eyes are bright with excitement now. 

“Yes,” Madge replies, breathlessly. 

“Oh no!” I burst out. They jump like they forgot I was there. “No.” I shake my head firmly, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Neither of you are getting involved with the rebellion.” 

“What!” Gale yells at the same time Madge breathes “There’s a rebellion?” 

They both round on me. I clamp my mouth shut. Shake my head. I’m not speaking to them about this now, especially right in the open. Who knows what kind of Capitol surveillance is around? Gale throws up his hands, but spins and strides away. Halfway down the road he shoots me a dark look that indicates this conversation isn’t over. 

“What the hell was that?” Madge snaps at me. 

“He’s in a mood about...” I trail off. 

“Well keep me out of the crossfire next time you have a lovers quarrel!” She sniffles once, then runs off towards her house. 

* * *

I’m adrift as I wander back through the town. I feel more kinship with Madge than I ever had before, realising that we really are so alike. I never realised before how our silent lunches probably protected her from people prying and their pity. I didn’t realise they were using the Games to control Mr Undersee, although with what I know now of Capitol tactics I’m not surprised. I stop short. How will it reflect on Mayor Undersee when Primrose and Peeta are not at the Reaping ceremony when their names are called? Will Madge be sent in my place? I realise my list of families I plan on dragging into the woods is getting long, and will not go unnoticed. I’m almost into the Seam when I feel the familiar prickle of eyes on my neck. I look around. I find Haymitch’s cool grey eyes on me. He pushes up from where he’s leaning casually against a wall and swaggers over. 

“Heard you brought down a deer today.” He says, gesturing that we should continue walking. 

I nod, eyeing him warily out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t seem any worse for wear than usual, and he doesn’t seem mad. I think he’s even bathed. 

“You really did a number on me last night sweetheart.” He rubs the side of his head. “Any chance I’ll get those knives back?” 

I snort. I consider those knives fair trade for him throwing a bottle at my head. Besides, Haymitch has enough knives. 

“Do you still want to speak with Beetee?” He asks. 

“Yes.” I say eagerly. I remember concerns about being watched in the square. “But not if the Capitol can hear. You must have secret ways to contact the others, right?” 

“Okay, it’ll take me a little while to set up. Come by my house after school on Wednesday.” Haymitch nods to himself and turns for the path to the Victors Village. His pockets clink. 

“Haymitch” I say and he turns to look at me. “Stop buying your liquor from Ripper, it will strip your insides. Buy some bread from the bakery. You need something to soak up that alcohol.” 

He grunts. 

“If you can’t be bothered going to town get it delivered.” I continue. “Ask for Peeta. You’ll like him. Eventually.” 

I head home and sleep for four hours. 

* * *

I take Prim and her goat Lady to the meadow at sunset. I look up at the sky, reflecting that not long ago I had been so sure I didn’t have many sunsets left. Now I feel like my life has opened up again, and I might have some choice about how those sunsets are seen. 

Last night and this morning, I was convinced we should run into the woods. Surely no one would miss two families from the Seam and a merchant boy. Now, I’m not so sure. I think of Mr Mellark’s kind eyes watching me step into the bakery. Will Peeta come with us and leave his family? Could we convince his family to come with us? His mother? I can’t see that happening. I wrap my arms around my legs and shiver as the long grass rustles, ripples from one end of the meadow to the next. Prim and I in the middle of a grass ocean. 

I could lay out my feelings towards Peeta, hint at building something more between us. Would he come then? The thought of manipulating him like that makes me feel sick. I watch the sky fading into brilliant pinks and oranges. Peeta’s favourite colour. I realise that I miss him, miss being able to sit with him. I wonder if I could explain the situation to him, could he help? Would he help? I’m just an abstract dream to him at this point. A boyhood crush. Unreachable through district class lines and my own closed off personality. 

I look over at Prim as she prances about with Lady, coaxing her to eat some nettles. She tickles Lady’s nose and leans on her tippy toes into the wind, and suddenly she’s not Prim anymore, she’s Rue. The bottom drops out of my stomach. Rue. How could I forget her? In this whole equation, in the extreme chance that I get everyone I care about out of District Twelve, what happens to Rue? She will still die, still suffer at the hands of the Gamemakers. I drop my hands into my face. How am I supposed to do this? 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fan work, the original works and characters belong to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.

The days drag until Wednesday. I hunt with near supernatural accuracy now, catching far more than we need for the week, trading and stockpiling what we can’t eat. Gale is still stony from our confrontation, and itching to ask about the rebellion. I head off any attempts to discuss it by throwing out ideas for new snares. 

School is no use as a distraction either. Not that I ever paid much attention before, but once I realise I have heard the teacher’s lectures before, my mind drifts completely. The comfort of seeing Peeta everyday, if only from a distance, is traded off by the prickly sensation in my skin at the frequency at which his eyes slide towards me. I collect the easy smiles he gives our classmates. I realise he won’t approach me unless I approach him first. The thought of the weight of the speculative gazes of the Merchant and Seam kids alike in our school makes me flinch. 

One gaze I can’t avoid is Madge’s. She quietly apologises to me on Monday morning, and I ask how her mother is going. She gives me a tired shrug, and we don’t speak of it again. Instead, I tell her the story of how I got chased by a bear. We spend our lunch hour in laughter instead of silence. 

By Wednesday, I’m about to burst out of my skin. Of course this is the day that Prim decides she’d like to walk through the Market Square and stare into the windows. I have some coin in my pocket from the weekend’s trade, and I’d go into the bakery to buy her a cookie, but when we get to the window Peeta’s standing behind the counter. He catches my eye, and his face breaks up with a crooked grin which seems to light his eyes from the inside. My skin prickles all over this time, and I grab Prim and pull her away. My single minded determination to keep him alive during the Quell was intense, but now there’s no immediate threat I’m left with a puddle of curiosity, fear and longing that I can’t untangle. I don’t look back to see if Peeta’s smile has faded. 

* * *

Haymitch greets me with a scowl when I meet up with him later. I return it on principle. We’re in the shadow of the trees on the outskirts of Victors Village. From here I can see the house that used to be mine, or will be soon. This flipping tenses is giving me a headache. I rub my forehead. 

“I hope you appreciate I could get into a lot of trouble for this.” Haymitch says. “I’m choosing to trust you.” 

I snort. “Don’t flatter me Haymitch. You don’t trust anyone.” I pause. “You’re probably just too curious to turn me down.” 

He glances at me out of the side of his eye and settles onto a fallen tree. “You are a strangely dislikable person.” 

“So I’ve heard.” I reply. 

He fishes a black box the size of his fist out of his coat pocket and holds it out to me. I’ve never seen a communicator like this, with a strange rubber antenna extending along the side. The front face has three buttons, and a grill across the top. I roll it over in my hands and raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Don’t ask me how it works.” Haymitch shrugs at my unspoken question. 

No sooner has he said this when the communicator lets out a sharp hiss and then Beetee’s soft voice comes from the black grill. 

“This is D Three to D Twelve, are you there?” He asks. 

Haymitch takes the communicator from me, and pushes a button on the side. 

“Yeah D Three, I’m here, so is the girl.” They proceed to exchange some sort of nonsense conversation which I can only assume is code. Then 

Haymitch hands the communicator to me, showing me which button to hold when I respond. “No names” he says. 

“Hi D Three,” I say tentatively, “This is, uh, an ally of yours.” 

“That’s intriguing,” Beetee says brightly in his soft tone. “I don’t have many allies from D Twelve.” 

I cringe. 

“We haven’t met yet. We know each other from, from the third Quarter Quell.” I say shortly. 

There’s silence from the other line. Haymitch’s eyes narrow to slits and he subtly angles his body away from mine. I can hear the wind whispering through the trees around us. 

“What do you know about the upcoming Quell?” Beetee asks eventually. 

I don’t know how to reply to that. I never thought whether Snow’s reaping of the victors was just to punish me, or part of an earlier plan to purge Victors. But I hear somewhere that the Gamemaker’s start planning arenas up to five years in advance. I hedge my bets. 

“Tick tock, the arena’s a clock.” I say. 

More silence from the radio, but the air vibrating around Haymitch feels positively deadly. I avoid looking at him, as though he’s a monkey mutt in the arena, ready to be triggered by eye contact. 

“How do you know that?” Beetee demands. 

“Nuts told me. Or at least she will, in the future.” I reply. 

“Are you suggesting you have knowledge of the future?” Beetee sounds sceptical. Hastily I describe to him how he taught me to look for the force field shields in training, how he constructed a wire trap and how after I blew it up I ended up here. I avoid mentioning Wiress again, or describing anyone else’s loss. 

“It’s certainly an incredible story,” Beetee muses when I take a breath, “But too incredible I’m afraid. Time travel is impossible at this point. The technology doesn’t exist.” 

“But you invented the wire,” I interrupt. 

“Even someone as brilliant as me couldn’t solve that problem in two years, I’m afraid. Perhaps a medical intervention is required.” He says firmly. 

“But I know things!” I shout into the radio, exploding up from the log. Haymitch reaches into his pocket. 

“I know things I shouldn’t know, at school, about the Victors. I know my sister going to be reaped in six weeks with Peeta Mellark! The arena will be woodland, there will be mines and wolf mutts.” I know I have to convince him and I’m frantic now. “I know things about the riots and Thirteen!” 

“Stop!” Beetee cuts me off just as Haymitch barks out “There is no Thirteen.” I look at Haymitch and he looks away, almost guiltily. 

“Putting aside scientific theory, and perhaps you aren’t crazy. Let’s pretend you have some sort of gift of precognition. People had all manner of superstitions about visions before the Dark Days. If this is true, you can’t tell us about upcoming events or you’ll risk disrupting the timeline. And you shouldn’t try to change things.” Beetee says calmly. 

“The … timeline?” I repeat. 

He continues “Once you start making changes to the timeline you can’t estimate what the ripple effects can be. For example, you might feel you need to save someone’s life, but if you save their life it might have unexpected consequences you can’t control. For example, did their death result in saving someone else’s life?” 

“I don’t understand.” I say dumbly. 

“A different scenario. Say you do know who is going to be reaped this year, and you pull them out of the reaping for your district. Their name is called anyway, the Peacekeepers find out, hunt down the original tribute, as well as you and your co-conspirators. Now you are all Avoxes and in the Capitol. How did this help anyone?” Beetee says. 

He’s nailed my fear in a sentence. 

“What if,” I swallow, “what if the timeline needs to be changed? For the good of everyone?” 

“Well, theoretically you might need to find the single most important trigger event in the series and change that. Or you might want to find the cascade point, the single event that causes all of the flow on effects. Although I’m not sure what kind of events you are describing to change things in Panem that drastically.” 

“The rebellion.” I whisper into the radio. 

“What do you know about a rebellion?” Haymitch demands. 

“Never mind,” Beetee’s voice interrupts. “There’s no window for opportunity for a rebellion in Panem. No inciting incident.” 

“What would an inciting incident look like?” I ask, my tongue feeling thick in my throat. 

“An important event that stirs the broader people into action. Like a uniting symbol, a trigger, something to spark people’s emotions.” 

A spark. Like a girl on fire. I don’t realise I’ve spoken out loud until I hear Beetee’s voice crackle through the radio. 

“A girl on fire? Hmmm..” he sounds intrigued. “That could work.” 

I’m crying now, huge wracking sobs that shudder through my whole body. I throw the device back to Haymitch and run to the fence, aiming to escape into the woods. I almost put my hand on it before I realise it’s buzzing. The fence is on and I’m trapped. I fall onto my knees, lock my hands about my head and cry. 

* * *

I replay the conversation with Beetee over and over in my mind that night. Prim gets annoyed with my tossing and turning and goes to sleep with my mother. At midnight I give up, slipping on my hunting boots and jacket. On impulse I grab my game bag and take it with me. Skirting between buildings, it’s not until I’m at the back door of the bakery that I realise where my feet have taken me. Idiot! I tell myself. What was I going to do? Knock on the door and ask if I could sleep in Peeta’s bed? 

I eye the side of the building. The second window along is cracked open. It’s a testament to how exhausted I am that I consider climbing up the drainpipe to Peeta’s window. I wonder if he would turn me away. It occurs to me he probably shares a room with his brothers. Unable to think of anything else to do, I climb the apple tree. It’s spring foliage is already full, and the thicker branches start low, so it's barely any effort to swing up onto one of them. I belt myself in, my back braced against the trunk. The faint sounds of rustling leaves and occasional snuffle of the pigs is soothing and I'm asleep before I can readjust my jacket. 

I partially awaken to Peeta softly calling my name. Without opening my eyes I can tell it's still dark out. I definitely haven't had enough sleep. I’m exhausted still, but oddly I feel safe. I scowl and wave a hand towards his voice. 

"Peeta Mellark if you are waking me at some ungodly hour of the morning there better be cheese buns involved." I say. 

He laughs softly in disbelief and I promptly fall back to sleep. This time, I dream of children blowing dandelions seeds across the meadow, their laughter twinkling brightly in the sun. 

When I wake again it’s to the sound of clattering tins and other kitchen noises. I feel that lightness associated with Peeta again. I open my eyes and realise I'm in a tree. The sky is lit with early pink and gold streaks. I hear Peeta's heavy steps before a pause, then his face pops up between the leaves. 

"Good morning Katniss. You're in our apple tree." He says. 

I smile faintly. Turns out he can climb a tree if he needs to. 

"Remind me why are you in our apple tree again?" He says. 

No one should be as chatty as Peeta is at dawn. 

"I've got cheese on toast and tea if you'd like to come down." He grins. "Today’s loaves are just proofing so I've got a break for breakfast." 

I unbelt myself and roll onto my stomach on a lower branch. Peeta sits below me, my game bag and a small breakfast laid out beside him. I tell him I’m comfortable eating from up here, and he hands me up a mug of tea with a broken handle. I initially refuse the slice of toast he offers me, but he shoots me a sweet smile and I snatch the toast from his hands. My body feels like a dry husk, and I’m still shaking from last night’s crying fit. From my perch, I watch Peeta turn his face towards the sun, eyes closed, his hair scattering the cool morning light. 

“How did you know I was up here before?” I rasp, flinching at the sound of my rough voice. 

He pats the bag beside him. “I saw it at the bottom of the tree and figured you would be around somewhere.” 

We sip our tea. Off in the distance, two birds start chirping. 

"I love this time of day." Peeta says. 

“The sky is almost your favourite colour.” I say softly, pointing to where the sun is lifting up in a saffron glow behind the tree line. 

He smiles. 

“Peeta, are you happy with your life?” I ask. 

He looks up at me. “I'm happy right now. You looked happy when you woke up. What were you dreaming of?” 

I open my mouth, then close it again. We sit for a few moments in silence. 

“I've always been able to find happiness in small things.” I realise he’s continuing to answer my previous question. “The way flour falls in a pattern when you sift it, the steam off the top of a mug of tea, the sound of the lower school kids playing tag.” He shrugs. 

I realise this is how Peeta can give and give and never ask for anything back. He feels like he is being given things back in small, beautiful everyday moments that the rest of us rush past and ignore. Refilled by just existing in a world that he finds beautiful. 

“What if you had a chance for a better life would you take it?” I ask. 

“What kind of better life?” he says. 

“A freer one.” I reply. 

“I don't think a freer life would be any good for me unless the people around me are free too.” He says, setting his mug aside. 

“Something like that would come at a cost.” I bite my lip, thinking of the old man in District Eleven. 

“It's already costing us, the way we live.” He wraps his arms around his bent knees. “We're already suffering and sacrificing here in ways we shouldn't, in small ways, when we don't eat today so our siblings can, or in big ways, with the Games. I could never ask someone else to make a sacrifice for me though unless they believed in it.” He pauses. “You know if you ever need help with anything, anything at all, you can come to me.” 

“Talking to you is helping.” I say simply. 

I look at his sunny smile. It’s breathtaking. I can’t tell him about what’s coming. 

Beetee’s advice means I can’t see a way to keep us out of the arena. I push down the part of me that knows I couldn’t handle another arena without Peeta anyway. But I can’t let him spend the next few weeks carrying this dread around. And I’m scared to do anything that will encourage him to be more reckless in the arena than he is already going to be. I slip down from the tree. 

“Peeta, we can’t talk anymore. At least not for a while.” I say. I can’t look at his face. I focus on his hands as he grips his elbows, knuckles whitening. 

“I don’t understand.” He says slowly. 

I say nothing, picking up my bag from the ground. 

“Is it, is it because of the guy you hunt with?” He asks hesitantly. “I know he doesn’t like us talking...” 

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s not Gale. It’s me. I’ve got some stuff to figure out.” 

Peeta drops his head to his knees and I walk away from him again, hating every step. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ergh. This chapter was hard to write, from a plot wrangling standpoint. 
> 
> The comments and feedback I've been getting from everyone is so appreciated! Thanks to you all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fan work, the original works and characters belong to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.

I float through the rest of the week like a ghost in the wind. Peeta won’t meet my eye, won’t even look in my direction anymore. I feel adrift without him. I try to reconcile Beetee’s strange notions of timelines and altering events but it wears me out. I feel translucent, less tethered to reality.

My dreams only get worse, more confusing and violent and Mother starts dosing me with sleep syrup, just so the household can get through the night. I watch her closely while she pours my portions and mixes the teas. It doesn’t help. Like the sleeping pills, the syrup just traps me in my nightmares. At least Prim and Mother can sleep now.

On Fridays at school we read from an old fable book. Today it’s Peeta’s turn to read out loud. Hearing his voice reminds me of nights on the train where he’d tell me stories until I fell to sleep. I fold my legs up underneath me and tip my head towards the patch of sun on the corner of my desk. Beside me, Madge’s pencil scratches away. Fables are her favourite, and she has a special notebook dedicated to them since the start of the year. My eyes flutter closed.

Peeta stands before me, thin and pale in the fading light. There’s dried blood under his nose, crusted along the edge of his mouth. We’re in the meadow in Twelve, at twilight, the yellow daffodils bobbing their heads as a hot breeze blows past us. I look down. I’m in my Mockingjay dress, my pin glinting on my chest, the skirt throwing wisps of smoke and cinder. As the wind whips upwards, sparks are sucked into the engines of the hovercraft above us. I feel hot flames against my skin as the grass catches fire.

I grab Peeta’s hand and drag him towards the hovercraft, but he’s resisting, snarling and snapping at me like a rabid dog. I grab his shoulders and haul him backwards as his one foot kicks uselessly against the ground. He howls at the sky. We reach the hovercraft loading bay and I throw him up over the lip, then scramble up myself. I roll myself onto the cool metal, the meadow alight behind us. Peeta lunges at me and lands heavily on top of me. I push uselessly against his weight for a moment then hook my knees under his and flip him. He rolls loosely off me, limbs limp.

He’s dead.

An arrow protrudes from his neck, shiny, black and fletched with a Mockingjay’s feathers.

I scream.

I bolt upright and kick, throwing myself out of the chair. I hit the wall with my shoulder and slide down it. Forty shocked students stare at me. Madge is already halfway out of her chair, and Peeta’s on my other side, reaching down for me.

“Don’t!” I snap, pushing him away. I lift myself off the ground and right my chair with trembling hands, muttering an apology to the teacher.

“Peeta, if you will.” Madge says calmly, turning to face forwards.

After clearing his throat returns to his seat. Peeta starts reading again, voice calm and modulated as if there’s been no disruption at all. I can still feel a few eyes on me. Madge reaches out under the desk and holds my shaking hands in her own. Every time I blink, I see the arrow, my arrow surely, fletched with Mockingjay feathers, covered with Peeta’s blood.

* * *

After school I send Prim home with Rory. In unspoken agreement Madge and I walk out towards the oak tree, behind the sports square. We call it the sports square, although it’s just a large patch of dirt with line markings on it, where we can play football or run races.

When I was younger I remember kicking the ball and dust about, running and squealing with the other kids. But after the winter of my eleventh birthday it stopped. Kids from the Seam rarely have the energy to run around anyway.

“What did you dream about?” Madge asks softly.

“Mockingjay’s.” I whisper back. She stiffens.

“What had you so scared?” She asks.

I briefly explain the dream to Madge, avoiding mentioning where the dress came from. We sit under the tree together, as I studiously pick apart the grass next to me.

“What do you think it means?” Madge says.

“I think it means I’m going to kill Peeta, maybe everyone.” I say flatly.

“You’re too literal Katniss.” Madge protests. “You were just dreaming of the fable ‘The eagle and the arrow’. See?”

She shows her notebook to me. In neat rounded letters she’s transcribed the stories from today. There is a short verse of the Eagle and the Arrow, then notes of the possible translations. One of them stands out to me.

We give the enemy the means for our own destruction.

This doesn’t make me feel any better.

“In a sense,” Madge goes on, “the Capitol could be the eagle. I mean, they made the Mockingjay’s didn’t they? I think that's how we'll eventually bring them down, exploit their own arrogance.”

“Yeah but Snow wasn’t dead, Peeta was.” I snap at her.

There’s yelling and laughing from the opposite corner of the square and I turn to look. It’s the boys from the school who wrestle, dressed in shorts and old shirts. Peeta’s among them. He doesn’t notice us under the tree.

“He looks okay to me.” Madge says hesitantly.

I frown. I look at him again, while he starts warming up, looking for some clues of the haunted boy from my nightmare, but there’s none. As he crouches in the dirt, rocking back and forward onto his hands before starting some simple shoulder stretches I realise absently that he isn’t as stocky as I always thought.

Perhaps it’s because my scale has always been between half-starved Merchant kids to near dead Seam ones. Now I’ve been to the Capitol, seen the Careers up close, I realise none of us from Twelve are truly well fed.

Madge doodles in her fable notebook, writing short poems in the back about hares and lions, I watch the boys train. There’s a comfort to watching Peeta’s training, being able to predict his movements, and of course not being at risk of catching a fist to the face while doing it. He drops forward into push ups and reflexively I feel my own arms tense. I recognise his routine, it’s the same one we went through once a day in our training.

When I get home that night, I lay on the floor of my bedroom and start Peeta’s wrestling warm up routine. Going through the motions focuses me, anchors me to my body again as I breathe through each movement. My muscles resist the strength exercises, but for the first time in weeks I feel like there’s something I can do about the future.

* * *

Saturday morning sees another exceptional hunting day. Gale and I have been hauling so much game that our mothers have been able to preserve the excess. We plan small plots for gardening we might bring inside the fence that Gale’s younger siblings can tend to. Vick has been experimenting with planting carrot tops and other scraps we’d normally use in stews. After we drop fishing lines in the lake and check the snares, we set ourselves up in a sunny patch near the water. I tilt my face towards the sun as the day warms my sore muscles. Last night’s simple workout has left me sorer than expected.

Of course, the peace is soon punctuated by a Gale’s ranting. I partially ignore him out of habit. Today’s rant is about Mathematics and it’s a familiar one. In our final year of school, senior classes are divided into “Industry preparation” and a continuation of regular subjects. Unsurprisingly, Seam kids are placed in the industry training classes, which is just a year of mining induction training. The Merchants continue with other classes like mathematics, with the argument its business related.

Today when Gale speaks of it, there’s an unexpected shift in his tone that makes me crack one eye open and peer at him.

“Of everything we go through Gale, why does the Maths thing upset you so much?” I ask.

“I think sometimes I could be something more.” Gale says, almost wistfully. “Maths is good for other things too, like building and designing.”

I can see it for Gale. I know he has a clever brain, skilled with designing traps and repairing his house. Sometimes I feel he’d be more suited for industry in Three than Twelve. I study him as he moves forwards restlessly to check the lines again, hands in his pockets as he prowls along the waters edge.

“You know who’s good at Maths?” I say. “Madge. She’d lend you her books, if you wanted.”

“Yeah right.” Gale scoffs.

“I’m serious Gale. Why not just ask her?” I say.

“You know why.” He shoots back. I do know. Pride, intimidation, embarrassment, futility. Any of these uncomfortable things. But in this moment, sitting in the warm sun, I’m feeling more optimistic.

“Take her some strawberries and ask.” I shrug. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Maybe.” Gale says.

We don’t talk about it anymore, but before we hike back into town Gale collects careful handfuls of berries and puts them in his top pocket. I smirk, but I’ve got a special delivery of my own, a rabbit to bargain a new trade deal with the Baker.

* * *

I’m coming out of the Hob when Haymitch finds me again, slipping out of a shady doorway of a secondary storage shed attached to the main warehouse. Gale mumbled some excuse and he and his strawberry filled pockets set off towards the Mayor’s house.

“You know,” I say conversationally. “You’ve turned in to a first class skulker.”

“Thanks sweetheart.” Haymitch replies.

He falls into step beside me on the dusty street.

“The Bakers boy.” Haymitch says, “I don’t like him at all. Gets under my skin.”

I laugh a little, imagining what kind of polite conversation Peeta makes with Haymtich when he delivers his bread.

“It’s those eyes, he’s much cleverer than he lets on.” Haymitch says.

“Sounds like someone else I know.” I retort.

“No, I just look to judge. He looks like he’s weighing me up.” He admits.

“Afraid you’ll be found wanting Haymitch?” I ask.

“No,” Haymith shudders. “I’m afraid I’ll be found salvageable.”

“Then you don’t understand him yet. He finds all of us salvageable.” I branch away, leaving Haymitch to wander back towards the Village.

* * *

I’ve just turned the corner behind the bakery when I hear a familiar whistling noise then a slap. The sounds evokes cold terror in me and I bound forward. There’s a tremendous crash and Peeta falls backwards out the door. I hear the breath whoosh out of his body and he hits the ground in a cloud of dust. He’s staring wide eyed up into the doorway and I follow his line of sight.

Adrenaline shoots through me as Mrs Mellark steps down onto the first step. In her hand she holds a belt. Without a second thought I whip out the knife I have tucked in my waist and fling it towards her. It quivers in the doorframe half an inch from her nose. There is total silence. Peeta and his mother turn their heads simultaneously to look at me.

My hand is still outstretched from the release and I extend my index finger to point at Mrs Mellark.

“That was a warning,” I say coldly. Hopefully she can’t see the minute tremors running up and down my arm. “You won’t get another.”

I watch her face pale as she collapses back into herself then vanishes from the doorframe. With swift steps I walk over to Peeta and pull him into sitting. Already there is a red welt rising on his arm. I brush over it while running my hands over his body, looking for other injuries. He flinches when I run my hand over his back, his eyes on the ground.

“Don’t.” He says, his voice flat as he pushes me away.

I catch his hand in mine. I can’t tell where his trembling ends and mine begins. I forgot that Peeta has always lived in a kind of violence I will never know. I see his bright smile and soft jokes and I forget that he’s afraid in his own house. I wonder where Peeta feels safe.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, his voice oddly flat.

I pull the parcel with the skinned rabbit from my bag. Streaks of dried blood have collected on the corner of the wrapping.

Peeta blanches.

“Of course.” He mutters, pushing himself of the ground.

“Peeta, I, you… You deserve better than this.” I say finally.

His eyes harden and he finally meets my eyes. There a tiny teardrops clinging to the edges of his lashes.

“Just not from you.” He steps away from me. The movement leaves cold air in his wake.

“Peeta.” I start uncertainly. I grab his wrist to try to turn him towards me and he ducks me again. I reach my other hand for his face and he flinches. I’ve scared him. I’ve scared myself. I just threatened to kill his mother.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I whisper.

“You already have.” He says shortly. “Leave it Katniss. Just go.”

“Come with me.” I say impulsively.

“What?!” He looks at me incredulously. His hands clench at his side. “I can’t just leave. I’ve got …stuff. Responsibilities.’’

“Please, you can’t go back in there. Not when she’s like that.” I plead.

“You have no idea what she’s like Katniss! You know nothing about my family or me.” He says.

I blink at the accusation, open my mouth to refute it. And realise I can’t. I don’t even know his brother’s names. I have no idea what his relationship with his mother is like. I’ve never asked.

Peeta’s getting agitated now, running his hands through his hair as if he’s about to tear it out.

“And where would I even go! The Community home? There is no other place for me Katniss.” His shoulders slump and he staggers to the tree, sliding down it.

“Come with me.” I plead again. “You can stay with my family. Please. I won’t leave you here.”

He looks up at me, his face a mask of confusion.

“Where is this coming from?” He asks.

“I just want to protect you.” I say.

“I don't want your protection,” he says hotly, punching at the ground beside his thigh. “Or your pity. I want you to look at me and see me.”

“I do. I see you.” I insist, “You’re Peeta. You’re my,” I search for a word.

What’s the name for someone you are willing to kill for and die for?

“Friend.” It falls lamely from my lips.

He lets out a bitter laugh, looking dazed.

“Friend? I don’t know what’s going on here Katniss, and it’s exhausting. Maybe it’s not the best time to talk about this. I’m upset right now. I just thought maybe, when you asked for me, I thought maybe I was something…”

He sucks a deep breath.

“And then you cut me off, like I was nothing.”

“You’re not nothing Peeta.” I say automatically.

“If I’m not nothing then what am I?” He asks. He’s looking at me now, really looking at me, but I can’t read his face at all. Like he’s shut off some part of himself from me, like I’ve shut off so much of me from him all this time.

“What am I Katniss?” he repeats, his voice hard again.

“You’re not nothing.” I say again unsteadily. I turn and walk away, my steps jerky. Because I’ve just realised what Peeta is, and he’s not nothing. He’s everything.

* * *

It's not until I stumble home and see Rory Hawthorne sitting at our kitchen table that I understand how I recognised the whistling slap noise from the bakery. It was the same sound of Gale’s whipping. And then I remember Peeta's reaction to the noise in the square, how his jaw clenched and body seized up. How he knew something terrible was happening even before he pushed through the crowd.

I stumble to the kitchen counter and vomit into the scrap bucket. My shaking gradually reduces as I retch, as though the adrenaline is purging from my body. Mother strokes my braid until it's just bile and spit coming out, murmuring to me as she sends Prim and Rory outside.

Through sobs I explain the scene at the bakery. Mother cradles my head into her chest and rocks me, crooning that I’m her tender girl. I remember this, from crisp autumn days when my father used to bring me home from the woods. He’d fling the front door open dramatically calling to Mother that she had a patient, half wild and frozen. Then they would crush me between themselves and sway together as I pushed my cold nose into Mother’s neck. Cold nose, warm heart, she would say. I want to pull away, but for now, it’s just nice to feel cared for.

“Mama,” I say pathetically, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “What will I do about Peeta?”

She purses her lips. “Maybe it’s not your place to decide what to do about Peeta.” She says firmly.

I recoil back from her.

“Except be his friend, and ask what he needs.” She continues.

I frown at her, wiping my eyes.

“Katniss. You’ve been doing everything alone for too long. It’s saved our lives. But it also means you think everything falls to you. And it doesn’t anymore. Your Daddy would say, ‘Trouble shared is trouble halved’. There’s no shame in that.” She pushes back from the table. “It sounds like l might have a patient in town. Let’s put a kit together.”

Mama brings the herb basket over to the table and starts laying things out, explaining their uses to me clinically, like she might instruct Prim. She pulls out some I recognise. Flat green leaves of fresh plantains, Rue’s tracker jacker remedy. I pull it aside. Yellow flowers to reduce fever. Fine white flowers to slow bleeding. I pull some of these aside too, transfixed as Mama starts crushing arnica flowers into a poultice. I take some of her little wax packets out, scribbling the names and uses of my little pile of herbs on the outside.

“These need to go to Peeta too.” I say firmly.

“Katniss,” she warns, “that’s a lot of medicine, he doesn’t need these.”

“I want him to have them.” I insist, and she relents, the corner of her mouth turning up in a soft smile.

“Mama,” I say hesitantly. “Would you do it again? With Dad? If you knew it would end up like this?” I wave my hand around the kitchen.

“I didn’t realise all of this was that bad.” She says softly.

I pull away from her.

“Maybe not for you.” I say. The words hang between us.

“Katniss. Being alone is lonely. No matter how you ended up there.” She surges to her feet, sweeping the poultice and herb packets into her medical bag. “And yes. I’d do it a thousand times over.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a real sticking point for me as it developed a life of it's own. I ended up deciding a good chapter is a finished chapter and resisted the urge for a heavy line edit. 
> 
> Feedback and comments more than welcome, especially if you have any technical notes on how I could have improved it! 
> 
> Thanks for you patience!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Reaping’s coming up soon.” Haymitch says casually.
> 
> I bristle. It’s not date that I could lose track of.
> 
> “Still think you and your boy will be on that train?” He asks.
> 
> “Yes.” I spit out.
> 
> “How’d it go? The first time around, I mean.” He asks.

When Mama returns she floats unsteadily to her chair by the empty fire. She stares into space. For once, her listlessness doesn’t fill me with anger. I prepare a cup of peppermint tea and light the kindling, adding a heavy log that will burn long and slow. 

I sit next to her. 

I wonder if she recognises her reflection when she’s like this. Just a half person. 

Then I remember myself, when I was a crazy half-feral girl howling like a wraith at the doctors restarting Peeta’s heart. I remember seeing my face as I screamed to be Prim’s replacement in the Games recaps, empty eyes and bloodless lips. 

I didn’t recognise myself in those moments either. 

Prim finds us, Mother and I, sitting at the hearth, gazing at nothing. Empty-eyed together. 

* * *

Prim forces me out of bed the next morning, and to the Hob to trade some of Lady’s cheese for wax paper and string before school. She grasps my hand so firmly in hers that she pulls me back into my body. 

Haymitch is there, looking crusty around the edges but surprisingly put together for an early morning. He’s leaning apathetically against Ripper’s stall, but his eyes are narrowed as he takes the marketplace in. I steadfastly ignore him, gripping Prim’s hand tighter as I teach her to haggle at the stalls, pointing out who deals fairly and how to keep an eye out for peacekeepers. 

Haymitch detaches himself from Ripper’s tabletop and trails out after us. I sigh and send Prim on ahead to school. 

“Reaping’s coming up soon.” Haymitch says casually. 

I bristle. It’s not date that I could lose track of. 

“Still think you and your boy will be on that train?” He asks. 

“Yes.” I spit out. 

“How’d it go? The first time around, I mean.” He asks. 

I glance at him in surprise. 

“Obviously alright for you, if you made it long enough to be sent into a second arena.” He waves a hand at my obvious disgust at his statement. “What I can’t figure out is why you sent the boy to me. His death weighing on your conscience? Hoping I’ll help him out instead of you? You’re the smarter bet, by far.” 

“Peeta’s strong.” I protest. 

“And clever too. He’s marketable. Anyone can see that.” Haymitch waves his hand again. “Against any other Twelve kid he’d be the better contender, more likely to come home alive.” 

“We both came home alive.” I correct immediately, distressed by Haymitch’s cold analytics. 

It would be comical, the way he stops as though he’d run into an invisible forcefield. I would laugh, but just as I turn back to him, Peeta turns the corner from the track to Victor’s Village, arms laden with empty delivery sacks. He slows when he sees us. 

I look at him. He looks back, vulnerability opening his features. Then he reels it in, smoothing his face down to a polite neutral, although his eyes still reach out for me. 

“Haymitch, I just dropped off your delivery. Katniss,” his voice breaks a little, “see you at school.” 

He turns and walks towards the school. I watch him. 

“How did you do it then?” Haymitch asks. I can feel his eyes on me. 

“I think you did it, mostly. At the end, it was Peeta and I. Just the two of us left. And he was,” I swallow, looking at Peeta’s back, his even, heavy gait, remembering the thick heavy blood puddling at his feet. “I decided, we decided, if we couldn’t go home together, we wouldn’t go home at all.” 

“Two victors or none. You forced the hand of the Gamemakers.” He says. 

“They forced our hand first.” 

“Would you have gone through with it?” Haymitch eyes me up and down. 

I think of Peeta’s fingers running down my braid. 

“Yes.” I say with certainty. 

“Alright. You need to tell me everything you think is going to happen. And you should tell me now, while I’m sober.” 

“But Beetee -” I begin to protest. 

Haymitch snorts, cutting my protest short. 

“I didn’t understand half the words that come out of his mouth, preserving timelines and that rubbish. Did Beetee’s speculative technobabble help you at all?” 

My silence admits it didn’t. Even after all these weeks of running over it, getting out of the games is something my brain can’t twist itself around what’s to come, I can’t get past anything other than the mind-numbing fear, and the realisation I have more to lose than I ever believed. I have no plan. 

“Look sweetheart, I’m still in half a mind to dismiss you as crazy and go home and drink myself into oblivion again. But I haven’t brought a kid home in twenty-three years, and a two-for-one deal sounds better than nothing.” Haymitch says. “As far as I’m concerned, you only have one life, and it’s the life you are living now. So you can keep doing all this by yourself, or you can share with your soon-to-be alcoholic mentor.” 

I think about this for a long moment. 

“Okay.” I say. 

I know that Peeta and Haymitch have always been better at making plans than me, seeing the bigger agenda and playing to it. I’m always too focused on survival, on myself and my family, to navigate the Arena or the Capitol any kind of purpose beyond surviving the next move. Or to follow the lead of my teammates. Never followed my teammates lead without suspicion. 

Looking at Haymitch’s narrowed eyes, his tense stance, how he seems to be fighting with himself over my ready acceptance I realise that we were all playing a different, secret game at the same time as one another. 

It’s time to be a team. 

I go with Haymitch and tell him everything. 

* * *

Telling Haymitch about all the events of the past year takes hours, but afterwards I feel strangely light. I’m not sure he believes me, but when he dismisses me with a wave of his hand I glance back and see him pull his flask from pocket and pour it into the dirt. 

I drop my school bag at home, pausing to shovel down some food and write myself a sick note in the event a Peacekeeper catches me. Mother barely stirs as I bang about the kitchen. I heat some broth in a mug for her. Then I take down the plant book and head to the woods. 

I scour the woods looking for the little yellow flowers Mother said could stop her sadness, and when I find them I pull up two whole bushes. I mark the site for Gale, so he can return and find more if need be. I shoot two rabbits, and take my haul home. 

One of the plants, I plant in our backyard and cover with chicken wire to protect it from Lady. The other, I hang on the drying rack for Mother to process. When the chair scrapes across the kitchen Mother finally looks up, her forehead creased in confusion when she sees the herbs. 

“Come on Mama,” I coax her from the corner to the kitchen table. “You’ve got a patient to treat.” 

She cries when she recognises the flowers, but immediately strips a few and brews them into a tea. 

“I need to drink one of these every morning.” She says dully. 

I nod, and tell her that she needs to teach Prim to prepare the tea for her. We sit across from each other and I fill her in on the deal I have made with Gale, if either of us should be reaped. She looks me straight in the eye then, and I think she’s a mixture of proud and ashamed. 

I see the expression again, when I deliver one of the rabbits to the Baker. In brisk terms I explain to him that we have surplus from hunting, and that my mother advised me his boys were still growing. He blushes at the exchange, and I wonder if it’s from the implication he’s not feeding them well enough, or for my family’s knowledge of Peeta’s injury. But his eyes look the same as my mother’s and we broker a deal. I’ll supply extra proteins for the spring and summer, and he’ll repay me with consistent extra quarter rations in trade over the winter months. Mr Mellark takes the exchange very seriously, and draws up a coded ledger to keep track of the trades. I hope the enough of the extra protein makes its way to Peeta. 

I drop the second rabbit with Gale’s family, waving off Hazelle’s questions with a quick grin. I feel light, focused, hopeful. 

It feels good to have someone on my side. 

* * *

But the other person I need on my side, Peeta, studiously avoids looking at me at school now. The silence feels similar to the months prior to the Victory Tour, and the forced avoidance hurts. 

I determine I’ll wait, and study his patterns at school to find a time to approach him to apologise. The problem, I soon realise, is that Peeta is rarely alone when we are at school, or heading to or from. He’s constantly with his brothers, or someone from our grade. 

Worse, now I know what he meant when he said he had noticed just about every other girl. In the space of two days he’s barely been alone. I've seen four dropped notebooks that he's graciously picked up, two different hands he's held to help climb over the picnic benches we lunch at, others with hands on his elbow, batting eyelashes and cooing. 

“Katniss,” Madge says, sounding amused, “let go of the pencil before you skewer someone.” 

“How do you turn your ankle walking across the square.” I scoff, throwing my pencil down. “Is she the clumsiest person in Panem? Learn to walk Delly.” 

Madge hisses at me to lower my voice as Delly limps into the classroom, hanging off Peeta’s arm. "And try to look a bit less murderous.” 

“Murderous?” I turn to Madge. 

“Yes,” She says, pointing her pencil at my eyebrows, “like that.” 

I direct an arena level scowl at her. Her petite form barely flinches. 

“It's okay, I'm pretty sure he's seen her eat paste.” Madge pats my arm. “Why don't you just go over to talk to him?” 

I pull at the edges of my notebook, shredding the corner with my fingernails. I don’t reply to Madge. 

“Okay.” She shrugs. “Speaking of boys. Can you give this book to Gale?” 

She reaches into her bag, and pulls out a small, slim notebook. She slides it across the table to me. I open it, and there is a table of numbers, then a half page of numbers in a black. There are no operation symbols, just runs of figures scribbled into configurations I don’t understand. 

I raise an eyebrow at her. 

“This doesn’t look like any mathematics I’ve ever done.” I say. 

Madge’s eyes flit away for a second. 

“It’s just some more advanced stuff.” She says, shrugging one shoulder. “Don’t let anyone catch you with it. You know the classes are separated for a reason.” 

Something about her tone seems off and I open my mouth to comment when a loud giggle rings across the classroom. Delly. I scowl instinctively. 

“He’s coming to my birthday party you know.” Madge says. 

“Gale?” I ask. 

Madge rolls her eyes. “Peeta. Maybe you can talk to him there?” 

My protest at the invite lasts as long as it takes to remember that Madge doesn’t like parties any more than I do. That her father is insisting she throws it. I thank her, and slip the small notebook into my trouser pocket. 

* * *

While they are cutting the cake at Madge’s birthday, I slip out to find the music room. I feel most comfortable there. I tinker with the piano. Remembering some chords Madge taught me a simple love song from an old songbook after the Victory Tour. I hum the first few lines. Then sing to myself softly _“I’ve been reaching for a spark in this fire in her heart, does she love me?”_

I put my hands on the piano. Each day that passes that I recognise the events around me, I am more and more certain that I have already lived through what is coming up. I have avoided thinking about my feelings in the Quell. But with Peeta downstairs in the Mayor’s living room and me alone with the piano, I let myself think about it. How I felt when he died. The overwhelming something I felt when Finnick brought him back to life. The kiss on the beach. _“Is it too late, Is it too late to stop the flood, It’s already opened up, something I don’t wanna stop, does she love me?”_

My certainty that dying for him would be the right thing to do. 

I miss him. 

And then he’s in the doorway, as if summoned. I tip my head towards him, shift over on the piano bench. A wordless invite to sit down. If I’m right, we’ll be in the arena in two weeks anyway. 

_“You are, the blood that I bleed, We’ve got the whole world under our feet. Cos when you’re tired and you’re falling asleep I don’t want to let go.”_

My cheeks burn. It’s so intimate, sitting here, our shoulders brushing while I play and sing. I feel ridiculous for feeling so shy. I sing in front of Prim sometimes, I’ve sung in front of Panem for Rue. Peeta knows me better than anyone else and still. I think it’s the fact I can hear him holding his breath that’s making me feel uncomfortable. 

As I shift chords my arm bumps against his and I feel the slow burn in my chest. It seems like forever ago that I felt this on the beach. When I’m done, I hear his long exhale in a breath and I realise maybe I’ve made a mistake inviting him to sit with me. 

“I’m sorry Peeta.” I say abruptly, grimacing at my useless statement. 

“I feel like something’s going on with you.” He says softly. 

He’s still looking at my hands on the keys. I hide them in my lap. 

“I’d like to help you.” He tries again. “If I can.” 

I look up at him now, and he’s looking at me so openly, so earnest. His eyelashes catch the lamplight and ring his eyes in gold. I decide I can’t tell him, about what’s coming. Not today. He doesn’t need to know right now what’s coming. 

“You are helping.” I reach over and grasp his hand. 

Cautiously, he places his other hand over mine. I twist our fingers together. 

“I’m scared.” I blurt out. “When my Dad died, my Mum just…disappeared. And now I understand why. If something happens to you. I don’t know. I think I’ll disappear too. You’re so important.” I look at my hands again. 

“I have to keep you safe.” I whisper. 

“Katniss,” Peeta shakes his head, looking like he doesn’t know where to start. 

Unexpectedly, he laughs. I go to pull my hand away and he grips it tighter. 

“This is so surreal,” he says, “like I’ve dreamed this up.” 

“Not a dream.” I squeeze his hand a little. “I’m right here.” 

He blinks at me, then suddenly a crooked grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, you are. Alright then. I can wait. How will I know when we can talk about it?” 

I smile sadly back at him. “Trust me, you’ll know.” 

“What happens then? When it’s time to talk.” 

I allow myself a small concession, and lean over to brush my hand across the curls on his forehead. 

“Then you and I are going to set the world on fire.” I stand up and walk out of the music room, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry for the delays in updating! A lot happened in this chapter again. 
> 
> So, Dean Lewis's acoustic release of this song is so beautiful and completely Everlark, and inspired a whole chunk of this story.  
> Give it a listen- earphones in and in a quiet space-  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTfuXg2l3fQ
> 
> I wanted to take the lyrics out, but left them. Let me know how you think they worked?
> 
> Also- HUNGER GAMES PREQUEL (that is all)  
> Also also- Yes I just threw all that hard work I did about time travel out the window but it was in fact done on purpose to prove a point!


	7. Chapter 7

I meet with Gale at our spot in the woods. A thin line of sun peeks above the mountains and lights the fog in the valley in a soft orange glow. I think Peeta would like it, sitting out here in the peaceful morning air. It wouldn’t be good for hunting, but it would be good for us. I smile a little at the thought. 

“Apple slice for your thoughts?” Gale waves a sliver of fruit teasingly at me. 

My hand shoots out, as fast as Buttercup when he spies a lizard, and snags the treat from him. I laugh at his surly expression as he sets about carving more slices from the apple with his knife. The thick skin of the fruit resists for a moment, then splits as Gale pushes blade into the apple with his thumb. 

I pull the knife I stole from Haymitch from out of my waistband and offer it to him, hilt first. He takes it from me, weighing it in his hand. He lifts it up and examines it in the dim morning light. It’s a finely made weapon, almost ornamental in how smoothly the blade curves to the edge and solidly integrates into the handle. A Capitol weapon, so the quality is miles above our hunting knives, which are chipped and held together with rough solder and leather cording. Much like Gale and I. 

Experimentally, he slices the apple again. The blade slices cleanly through this time, with so little force Gale almost catches his fingers on the other side. 

“Where did you get this?” He asks suspiciously. 

“I stole it from Haymitch.” 

I take another slice of apple from him in his surprise. The suspicion in Gale’s eyes doesn’t fade, nor does he laugh or compliment me like I expected him to. He looks away from me for a moment, a muscle in his jaw spasming. 

“You can keep it.” I say, trying to sound casual. “In fact, you can keep whatever we bring in today. We’re still working through Friday’s haul.” 

“Then you can preserve it, Katniss.” He says, making my name a point at the end of his sentence. 

“Our pantry is stuffed full and we’re out of jars, Gale.” I say, mimicking his tone. “I just need one rabbit as usual.” 

“That’s right, for your special deal with the Baker.” He says. 

I nod, looking at him from the corner of my eye. I can feel his tension mounting, and it’s making me wary, like I would be if I unexpectedly came across a wild dog. I cast about for some way to reduce the strain between us, cursing the moment that Gale and my relationship became complicated. I feel the corner of Madge’s notebook pushing against my hipbone in my pocket and I lean back, wiggling it free. 

“I’ve also got this for you.” I extend it to him like a peace offering. 

He grabs it from me roughly, and hurried shoves it into the pocket of his canvas jacket. 

“Relax, I didn’t try to read it.” I say, trying to stamp down on my irritation. 

“It’s just Maths.” He retorts. 

“We both know that’s not true.” I say. 

The silence settles back across us, and I wiggle on the damp ground, trying to get comfortable again. In truth I’m keen to get moving and check the traps, and want to let the discomfort between Gale and I wash away with the focus that comes with hunting. I think of Madge’s angry words against the Capitol, and Gale’s own rants, and my concern overrides my awkwardness. 

“Gale,” I say hesitantly, resting my hand on his forearm. “You’re being careful, right?” 

“Leave it alone Katniss.” He says shortly, shrugging me off. 

He pushes to his feet and stalks off into the tree line, towards the snares. I have to half jog to keep up with his strides. At least we are getting started on this morning’s work, although our footsteps rustle loudly enough to scare away any prey. 

“You know, you are a giant hypocrite Katniss Everdeen.” He throws over his shoulder. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You think I haven’t noticed you’re hiding something? Running around with the Baker’s boy? Making secret agreements with Haymitch? Hoarding food like it’s late autumn and not the middle of summer? And then, you give me this.” Gale says hotly, holding the knife out. “The best blade I’ve ever seen, the most expensive thing we’ve ever held, and you just give it away. To me.” 

“It’s a useful knife. You’re my friend.” I respond. 

I’m confused now, unsure why he’s so angry. 

“Am I? Cos it doesn’t feel that way anymore.” He yells. 

“We are friends!” I yell back, the volume of my rage equalling his. 

“Then stop keeping secrets!” Gale’s voice cracks a little, and his eyes gleam in the morning light. 

As usual, these moments come up and slap me in the face. It shouldn’t, because Gale and I are made of the same broken bits. We were forged in scraps of coal briquettes, starvation and families that didn’t need medals, we needed fathers. It makes us the alike, compatible and combustible. 

Gale isn’t angry, he’s scared. 

Gale loves me, and he’s losing me. Losing me before the Reaping even happens, because I’m not really me anymore, or the version of me he knows. 

“Gale, you and I,” I start hesitantly, then gather conviction. “We’re family. Your brothers are my brothers, your sister my sister. We will always be family, no matter what else happens.” 

I need him to understand this. I can promise this to him, even if he can’t promise it back. He does though. 

“Your sister is my sister.” He says back, looking uncertainly at me. 

I smile and nod once, turning forwards to walk towards the snares. 

“You aren’t going to tell me what’s going on are you?” He says. 

“Not unless you promise me you and Madge aren’t plotting to burn down the Justice building.” I retort. 

Gale says nothing, and when I look back, he’s blushing. Actually blushing. 

“You’re, not doing that?” I ask stupidly. 

“God Katnip, you really are the worst.” He says, following me down the path. “We might think about it now though.” 

* * *

Haymitch finds me again, after my trade at the bakery, and if I were any more paranoid I would say I still had the tracker in my arm. 

“Been working on a plan.” He says, with no preamble. 

“Okay.” I say easily. “As long as you remember-” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He mutters. “The boy before you.” 

“Haymitch.” I grab his elbow and force him to meet my eye. “I’m telling you. There will be no me without Peeta.” 

“I get it.” He says. “Katniss. I get it.” 

His silver Seam eyes meet mine, and I realise they are the clearest I’ve ever seen them. The rest of him is still dishevelled, still wearing week old clothes and reeking of cheap liquor. But his eyes are clear and flinty. Determined. I tip my chin towards him in respect. 

“And you’ll explain the plan in full, to the both of us at the first available time.” I say, reminding him of his promise. 

“I could tell you now.” He points out. 

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want him to know in case he isn’t Reaped. I don’t want to encourage him to do anything rash if I go and he doesn’t.” 

“Your call.” He raises his hands and steps back. 

He’s still looking at me, although his eyes tighten in that calculating way of his. I’m reminded of the way he looks at a chessboard, weighing moves and countermoves with ease and indifference. 

“Haymitch. Whatever the plan is, keep it flexible. We will have things to say about it. We won’t be pawns this time around.” 

* * *

Sleeping is still so difficult, despite continuing my exercises and drinking all the camomile tea my stomach can handle. At night I struggle against my nightmares, old terrors of collapsing mines and starving children intermingling with new terrors of hovercrafts and black fletched arrows. I wake in the middle of the night exhausted, my sister having long since abandoned our bed to share with Mother. They sleep through now, used to my whimpers and kicking. 

I take to sneaking out, and find myself climbing the Mellark’s apple tree again and again. Darius catches me once, I’m outside curfew, but he just laughs before giving me a boost up into the tree. I tell myself it’s good preparation for the arena, that my body shouldn’t forget the precise balance required to sleep in a tree. 

Most mornings, Peeta somehow knows I’m there. I usually wake as the back door opens, releasing a strong waft of bread scented air. Peeta sits below the tree after setting a cup of tea on the lower branch, and I pretend this doesn’t break our no talking rule because I don’t say anything. 

Peeta does sometimes, telling silly stories about his brothers and making random observations. I try so hard not to laugh, to look impassive whenever he sneaks a look at me. He addresses his comments to the pigs, so I guess we are both pretending about the rules. 

Three days before the Reaping, I wake from a dream or a memory of Peeta laying amongst the vines, jaw slack and lungs still. I run to the bakery this time, feet falling noiselessly between the shadows of the squat Seam houses and in between the alleys of the Merchant quarter. 

I grab a stone off the ground and fling it at his window. It sails straight through the open window and I hear a short yelp. 

Maybe not one of my best thought out plans. 

I step forward out of the shadows as the window is pulled all the way up, and I see blond hair glinting silver in the moonlight. I freeze not a second later at the low laugh that is distinctly not Peeta’s, then a second figure joins the first, smaller and narrower. They are leaning far enough out of the window that I can catch a clear view of his bare shoulders and surprised features. Peeta. 

I considering running home as more low laughs float down from the window, along with snippets of a fiercely whispered conversation. But Peeta holds his palm out to me in a wait gesture before ducking back from the window. A second brother joins the first, leaning on his elbows on the windowsill. I can’t tell which is Aaron and which is Brant. If it wouldn’t give us all away I’m sure they’d be whistling and yelling crude things down at me. I give them the finger. 

Peeta’s poorly concealed footsteps thumping down the stairs. I decide to climb the tree, to better conceal us from nosy siblings. Peeta climbs up beside me with surprising ease, perching beside me with his back against the trunk. His curls are damp around the edges. They cling to his temples and around his ears. 

Peeta’s eyes widened as he takes me in. He reaches out as if to touch my face. 

“Have you been sleeping at all?” He asks softly. 

His hand hangs in the air between us. The distance is too much. I grab it and pull it towards me, planting a kiss on his palm. He smells like soap and sleep. He pulls a shaky breath as I turn my face again to look at him, resting my cheek against his warm palm. 

“Hi.” I say. 

“Hi.” He says back, a smile teasing around the right corner of his mouth. I reach my other hand out, tracing the place where his dimple would be if he smiled a little wider, running my fingers along his smooth jaw. I bring my hand to rest on his neck, where I can feel his pulse, strong and steady under my fingertips. 

We look at each other for a long moment. Then Peeta clears his throat. 

I break eye contact, feeling my cheeks heat with a blush. I’m being weird. Well, weirder than usual perhaps. Beyond seeing Peeta, healthy and whole, I didn’t have a plan, and now I’m stuck in a tree with him, touching his face. I move to take my hand back but he catches it with his own, resting it against his chest. He's got a bandage wrapped around his thumb. I try to pull his hand closer to me but he’s trapped my hand. 

“What happened?” I peer into the dark, trying to see it better. 

“That knife you left in our doorway is really sharp.” He says. 

“Peeta it could get infected!” I pull against him again. 

“Relax, Healer Everdeen. Someone sent me an entire apothecary remember?” He rubs his bandaged thumb across the back of my hand reassuringly. 

“Although,” Peeta’s grin spreads. “It may all have been counter intuitive to your plan.” 

“My plan?” I ask. 

“You left a tempting knife where I’d have no choice but to mess around with it. Then you got Aaron with that rock while he slept. You’re after this year's wrestling title. Take out the Mellark brothers, and the rest will fall before you-“ 

“Peeta.” I turn my face back into his hand, mortified. “Shut up.” 

“I bet you’re a scrappy wrestler too. Not above pinching where the ref can’t see-” 

I laugh into his palm. His fingers wiggle against my cheek. 

“Sorry. Tickles.” He whispers. 

I kiss his palm again and release his hand, pulling my own hand back from him. I twist my fingers together in my lap and watch Peeta’s own hand curl into a fist on his knee. We sit in silence, listening to the light breeze through the leaves. 

“I was thinking about what you told me, about your parents.” He says suddenly. “But I don’t have any good answers for you. I wish I could guarantee I’ll always be around, but our world doesn’t work like that. I’m not- I’m not naive. I think the best I can do is promise that I’ll always fight like hell to be next to you, to help you. If you’ll let me.” 

He takes a deep breath. 

“And you.. you could promise that you’ll fight to not to disappear.” He says. 

“We could protect each other.” I whisper, skimming my fingertips over his knuckles. 

“Yeah.” 

“That would be nice.” I say, inadequately. 

“Okay.” Peeta blinks rapidly, as though he can’t quite believe I’ve just agreed with what he’s said. 

Suddenly he laughs. It’s low and muffled in the quiet of the late evening. 

“If only my seven year old self could see me now.” He says by way of explanation. 

I don’t get it. 

“You know, Peeta and Katniss, sitting in a tree." He sings softly, gesturing around us. 

I lean into him, intent on completing the childish rhyme. 

I’ve kissed Peeta a hundred times before, but for him it's the first time he's kissed me. I didn’t know it was possible to smile while kissing. We manage it, bringing our mouths together in something awkward and soft. 

He says my name in a low murmur of delight. 

It pulls low in my stomach and I chase his mouth, pushing him against the trunk of the apple tree. I can feel the bark scraping my knuckles as I lace my fingers into his hair. He tastes like baking soda and honey. 

His hands twist in my hair and tangle in my hair and my head jerks back at the sharp pull. Peeta mumbles an apology, flushing red up to his ears as he untangles his fingers from my braid. The callouses on his hands pull strands of hair free around my neck. Peeta watches as I deftly separate my hair into three parts and weave it into a simple low plait. 

We laugh, light and nervous. The moment feels like it belongs to us. 

I never want to leave this tree. 

Without hesitation I lean in and kiss him again. With this kiss I make promises. I feel his breath mix with mine and his heartbeat under my hand. 

Then I leave, before I can burst with anxious joy. 

“Hey Katniss,” he calls after me as I jump from the lower branch. “Does this mean we’re talking now?” 

I walk away from him again, shaking my head, knowing I’ll be walking back towards him soon. 

* * *

The night before the Reaping, I sing Prim to sleep. My mother joins in, and I realise I had forgotten her singing voice. It’s high and sweet above my own. I tuck Prim in to bed and myself into my jacket. Mother doesn’t protest as I leave, just gives me a low warning about the Peacekeepers and sits herself before the fire. I wonder where she thinks I’m going. 

I’m surprised when my feet don’t take me to the bakery, but to the fence. I roll beneath it and walk on, grabbing my bow for protection and heading for the clearing above the meadow. I reach the circle of scorched earth where I awoke after shooting out the arena. 

Pale shoots of grass are pushing up through the blackened burnt ground. The earth is washed fresh by the new growth and breeze up from the valley. I lay down in the middle of it. I look up to the sky, bow loaded and gripped tightly in my hands. 

Tomorrow I will be reaped. 

The stars pulse softly as I gaze upwards, listening to the rustling of the trees and my own breath. Eventually my fingers slacken on the bow and I drift to sleep, the stars sliding together. 

I stand facing the city circle, snow swirling softly around me. Black flags hang loose from every spare fence and railing. I spin, sinking into a low crouch, looking for danger. There are no tracks but my own. The sun sits low behind the Presidential mansion. I raise a hand to shield my eyes and glimpse a figure up the stairs. 

They gesture to me. I take the steps slowly, my boots crunching in the crisp snow. I’m aware I have no weapons, that I’m exposed. As I get closer, I make out details of the tall figure, a familiar stoop to the broad shoulders and a jacket the exact same as the one I wear now. He has a bow slung over one shoulder. I come to a slow stop before my father. 

I brace myself for the explosion. For the ground to cave in. For the peacekeepers bullets to rain down. For moment this dream becomes a nightmare. 

“Why are you here?” I ask abruptly, when nothing terrible happens. 

He smiles at me, in that way that crinkles around his eyes. I’d forgotten he smiled like that. 

“I wanted to see you. Before it all started again.” He tells me. 

I look around and for the first time I notice the bright blood splashed against the snow. Against Snow. Because there, across the forecourt, a splash of white hair and a steadily dripping wound. President Snow hangs limply from a post. 

“Did I do that?” I whisper, half in terror, half in awe at the idea of finally killing him. 

My father shrugs and tilts his head. I look back again, to see a new body, dressed all in grey on the ground beside Snow’s post. A black arrow, fletched with a mockingjay feather, sticks out of their chest. It’s my arrow. 

My father takes the bow off his shoulder and hands it to me. 

I run my hands over the wood, lovingly coated with layer after layer of wax and oil. Hours of steady work by my father to carve it smoothly, to bend the wood gently to balance the tension. I know where every mark is, every groove and bump. Snowflakes leave icy pinpricks on the back of my exposed hands as I stroke the bow. 

“Katniss.” 

He says my name so gently. I grip the bow and press it to my forehead. 

“Have you found yourself yet?” He asks. 

I look up, snowflakes catching on my lashes. 

I’m alone. 

I wake covered in dew and mosquito bites. My father’s leather jacket is damp against my back. The earliest parts of the sun are leaking into the sky, sending the clear sky light blue along the fringes of the horizon. I hear rustling and roll to my side. A deer with her young doe appears from the underbrush, sniffing at the ground with soft noses. I watch them and they continue on their way, slipping back into the fog of summer mornings. 

I run my fingers over the bow. 

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am a tribute, a victor, an ally, a hunter, a healer, a friend. I am the Capitol’s Girl on Fire. I am the Rebellion’s symbol of resistance. I am my mother’s tender girl. I am my father’s wild archer. I am my sister’s guardian. I am Peeta’s love, his protector and his friend._

_My name is Katniss Everdeen, and I am done being a piece in their game._

* * *

There’s a detached surrealness to the Reaping ceremony, and the goodbyes afterwards. I say everything I meant to say before the Quarter Quell to my friends and family. The words trip easily off my tongue. Is it always so easy to tell people you love them? I follow the Peacekeepers out of the Justice building, and to the waiting car. 

Peeta’s eyes are still red rimmed but he clears this throat as we’re pressed together in the back seat. 

“You knew something like this was going to happen, didn’t you?” He asks softly. 

I turn to face him. Now it feels real. Now I want to hijack the car and drive off towards the mountains. I want to scream and wail and smash the window beside me. I want to punch the seat and rage and howl at what we are about to go through. 

But all I say is “I’m sorry. I would have stopped it if I could have.” 

I’ve betrayed him, I should have told him, prepared him better. He should never speak to me again. 

He’s silent as the car drives towards the train station. 

But when we arrive, he turns to me. 

“Time to set the world on fire?” He asks. 

The reporter’s bodies press against the windows. Behind them, I see Haymitch waiting for us at the carriage door. Camera flashes explode from all around us in blinding succession. They reflect in Peeta’s eyes like falling stars, like liquid fire, like silver parachutes, like lightning. But underneath are the deep blue eyes I trust, steady like the night sky. 

“Time to set the world on fire.” I confirm. 

I offer him my hand. 

“Together?” I ask. 

He takes my hand without hesitation and reaches for the door. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! We've reached the end, or the re-beginning if you will.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read, gave kudos and commented, I appreciate it more than you could know! 
> 
> I got quite anxious about posting the last chapter, this being a fic I feel really invested in and also my first ever fanfiction. So I sat on it for a while, I dunno maybe hoping to make it perfect?
> 
> But it doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to make me happy, and I wanted to take Katniss through an arc of emotional growth and end her in a place of trust, and I think I did that. 
> 
> It's great if it also makes you readers happy too. So I hope it did! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @reachingforaspark thanks for all my new friends I've made there too ❤

**Author's Note:**

> First ever fanfiction, unbeta'd except for spell checking by my lovely other half (who said he liked it, although he doesn't really get the Hunger Games).
> 
> Comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thanks!


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